


after years

by weirdoqueen



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:38:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdoqueen/pseuds/weirdoqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>after being separated for more than 7 years, zevran is finally reunited with his love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	after years

after years

it was one of the few moments either of them were out in the street in the daylight. the light, in all its warmth, was too kind of a place for them to work their cunning and death. and besides, they were both wanted for their crimes against the state—more specifically, their crimes against the Crows, every cell that they had angered and that they had failed to bring to their sides. 

for him, it had started with a desire for revenge, a need to permanently silence those who still believed he had betrayed his kin, and one that escalated to a belief that his homeland, his beautiful Antiva with its women so beautiful they rivaled gold itself, and its air so thick with rain and flowers and wine that mountain air was a commodity, meant solely for bartering in the bazaars.

and she—

she sought to find him. she sought to bring him home to her, and if that meant money, she would free herself of sovereigns’ bounds; if that meant blood, she would soak her very skin in vermillion red; if that meant lying and cheating, her tongue would keep no morals; if that meant giving up her own body, well—her tongue would keep no morals. for everything she could give up to find him, she would never lose her heart until she could search his pockets for it herself.

—

the rain had ceased for the day, allowing fingers of sunshine to filter through the warm grey cloud cover. the petals of the flowers that crowded the window boxes of Antiva City’s merchant district had opened, their scent wafting lazily upon the warm breeze that blew in from the coast. the bazaar was crowded, as was wont to happen in the late mornings; merchants cried out in advertisement of their wares, while cautious and haggle-ready customers eyed what was offered to them. here and there a child or two darted between the skirts of the ladies and leathers of the men, and an elven nanny was not far behind. nestled in the corner of the bazaar was the brothel. its facade was draped with red and dark pink, and thin streams of steam laced with the scent of flavored tobacco escaped through the narrow windows. in front of the doors were several courtesans, their dresses bright and their faces painted, hair piled high so their necks were bare to the burning eyes of the men—and women, if they had coin—of the bazaar. in ferelden, brothels were tucked into the dark alleys of the seediest streets of the cities—in fact, the infamous Pearl was the only whorehouse of repute of which any Antivan had ever caught wind. there in Antiva, brothels were nothing to be ashamed of, and they did provide a steady tax revenue.

it was from this brothel that she emerged, the thumb of one hand wiping the corner of her mouth as her other hand brought up the hood of her cloak. though it was not raining, it was not entirely unusual for people, women especially, to wear their hoods during the day. though she was careful in her work, she did not want to risk anyone recognizing her, whether as killer, lover, thief, or grey warden and hero of ferelden.

he, however, had been on the other side of the circle, looking for a particularly exorbitant gift to present to a prince at his ball, if only to more easily infiltrate the party guests and assassinate a cell leader who was contracted to protect the prince.

as he turned away from those particular wares, since the items in question were not nearly gaudy enough, his elven eyes spied her on the other side of the bazaar, just as her eyes were drenched in the shadow of her hood.

but he swore he saw a familiar green. even the shape of her mouth was enough to send his memory reeling.

by instinct, he took to the shadows, and began to plot out his approach. she sent up a flag in his head, and whether she was friend or foe, he did not know. however, seeing how few friends he kept these days, she was almost certainly the latter.

he followed her as she left the brothel, as she made her way west towards the _cuerta del sol_ —the court of the sun, the heart of the city, and the home of its two crown gems: the golden cathedral, and the burning fountain. 

the cathedral was, not surprisingly, indeed golden: its steeple was plated with sheets of gold. this hall of the maker, this house of andraste was fabled to have existed since Antiva’s birth, and it was around this chantry that the city was built. this was where all of Antiva City held worship, for there were no other chantries within the city’s walls. the building’s steeple had been built in such an orientation that in the height of the summer, the steeple was exactly positioned in front of the rising sun, casting a halo about the chantry and a golden glimmer across the city. this was, the city believed, simply a miracle, a sign that the maker only sought to make the city all the more beautiful.

the burning fountain housed a precious relic, a large ruby that burned eternally. though it was likely the work of some mage of ancient times, the local legends told that the spirits of two doomed lovers resided within, a pair whose warring families drove them to death, the only place where they could love each other freely. so strong was their love that it burned in eternal flame, and long and arduous was the task of designing a fountain that could properly house it. this fountain was set in the true center of the city, and each day at exactly noon, just when the midday sun—if there was any sun that day—cast its light right through the gemstone, the whole courtyard glimmered with crimson.

it was only minutes before this hour as he tailed her, quietly cursing fate as the clouds dissipated further and the heat grew stronger. he was running out of shadow, he would have to strike soon or he would no longer have a place to hide.

and so, at a minute short of noon, he grabbed her from behind, one hand over her mouth and one around her waist. she, however, was no stranger to this maneuver, but he caught her attempt at disarming him like clockwork.

which was unusual, because she had created the move herself.

“ _yo no quero lastimierte_ ,” he murmured—he didn’t want to hurt her.

but as soon as that first syllable escaped his lips, her eyes widened, and she gasped, almost falling limp in his arms. 

“ _nunca podría lastimierte_ ,” she replied, “You could never hurt me.”

his hands flew away from her and he took a step backwards, his heart racing. she turned, bringing her hood down from her head. he let out a short breath as the light of a hundred ruby facets scattered across the court, as their lips met and their arms wrapped around one another.

“ _siempre_ ,” he breathed into her ear, “ _la illama arde._ ”

forever, he said,

the flame burns.


End file.
